


His Happiest Christmas

by loveglowsinthedark



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bottom Draco, Christmas fic, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Protective Harry, Secret Santa fic!, Slytherin Common Room, Top Harry, Weasley Jumpers, eighth year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 16:18:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13127301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveglowsinthedark/pseuds/loveglowsinthedark
Summary: Harry would've never thought that spending Christmas withDraco Malfoy, doing nothing at all in particular, could bring him as much happiness as it does.





	His Happiest Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote for the [Drarry Exchange](https://drarryexchange.tumblr.com/) and here's my little Christmas fic for my giftee [Seraphina Jefferson!](http://jily-died-36-years-ago.tumblr.com/) I hope it's to your liking, sweet! Merry Christmas! ❤️
> 
> Also many thanks to [Pixie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bixgirl1) (as is norm, lol)! :*
> 
> The prompt I picked was:  
> "Christmas drarry. They are in the Slytherin common room, that's decorated, and are sitting by the fire. Decked out in customised Weasley sweaters with mugs and books. Draco snuggled into Harry and both are smiling contentedly."
> 
> [Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the work of J.K. Rowling and is not my intellectual property. I intend no copyright infringement and seek no financial gain from this work. This work of fiction is purely for entertainment purposes and honestly, it's basically just porn.]

 

“See? I _told_ you the place will be empty. Now tell me this isn’t infinitely preferable to the bloody _Gryffindor_ common room!”

Harry isn’t listening to Draco’s gloating; he sulks near the entrance, arms crossed as he scowls around the dim, eerily lit room. The stone pillars are hung with tapestries in rich, emerald green, the glass windows looking into the Lake ominously thin.

“Don’t you ever worry that the place will flood?” he blurts out, starting as an enormous something whizzes past one window.

Draco makes a sharp sound of impatience over near the massive fireplace that takes up most of one wall; he lays down yet another rug over the three he’s already spread out, sniffling wetly. “Stop being a tit and come here,” he calls, reaching over the back of two armchairs and a sofa to steal all the cushions he can find, tossing them down and then fishing out his handkerchief to blow his nose into.

The fire crackles, spitting loudly, and Harry is sure he hears a cat purring somewhere in the room as he gives in and meanders over to Draco. The chill from the stone walls and floor seeps into the room, but the fire is a huge, bright vermillion flare, and that along with the ridiculously ornate Christmas decorations dripping from every available surface around the room (with the addition of the sight of Draco in a fluffy, pure white Weasely  jumper, pink nosed and bright eyed, kicking his shoes off and disappearing into the nest of cushions and quilts) lends the room an undeniable, comforting warmth that seems to settle into his very bones.

“Harry,” Draco’s voice, though nasal and stuffy, has taken on that flat, demanding tone, “Stop _lingering_ and just come _here_.” He snorts softly into his handkerchief again, wiggling his nose into it until it emerges beet red.

“For Merlin’s sake,” Harry grumbles, kicking his own trainers off and throwing himself beside Draco, dragging the quilt he’s huddled under almost completely off him and over himself. He receives an elbow in the face for that, and immediately retaliates by shoving his freezing hands under Draco’s jumper, onto the soft, warm skin of his stomach and flanks.

Draco shrieks, thrashing and managing to shove one socked foot into Harry’s chest as they flail around together, Harry’s breathless laughter and Draco’s obscene swearing ringing around the otherwise still room.

They collapse abruptly into a pile of wool and fervent kisses, Draco’s still gloved hands cradling Harry’s cheeks, Harry’s hands drawing tantalising patterns across the scars slashing across Draco’s heaving chest. Their mouths move together in a slick, easy dance of blissful familiarity, until Draco pulls away, gasping for breath through his mouth, his blocked nose emitting high, wheezing sounds as he pushes Harry’s face away.

“I’b really dud with this cold,” he declares irritably, groping around for his handkerchief again, the silver M monogrammed onto the dove grey material standing out brightly before he buries his face in it and blows his nose again. Emerging with a sigh he says, voice less stuffy now, “I’m more than a little disappointed that I haven’t managed to snog some germs into you as well.”

“Yeah, I don’t fall ill much,” Harry lifts up and places one elbow next to Draco’s shoulder, resting one cheek in his hand as he gazes down at him, “If there’s one perk to the way I was brought up, it’s that I developed a great immunity even before I turned ten.” He grins lazily, lightly tickling the red tip of Draco’s nose as he drags another pillow under his head and then wraps both arms around Harry’s neck, sighing as Harry lands atop him with a soft _oof_.

“Don’t talk about that now, you’ll ruin Christmas for me,” he murmurs sleepily into Harry’s neck. “Tell me what you’re giving me.”

“No, you can wait until you open your gift tomorrow.” Harry settles down more comfortably, half his body still on top of Draco’s, his cheek pressed to the cushions. He tucks his arm under Draco, holding him close, loudly breathing in the scent of his hair. “You smell like Christmas,” he mumbles.

Draco laughs quietly. “The whole damn castle smells like Christmas, Potter,” he says, one hand running through Harry’s hair the way they both liked, dextrous fingers gently combing out the tangles. Harry makes a low, gurgling sound and burrows deeper into him. Then, slightly wryly, “Don’t think I’m not onto your pet ginger and his bushy girlfriend, Potter. I know they’ve only stayed back here to make sure I don’t drown you in the eggnog or something.”

“I _knew_ that’s why you dragged me down to this icebox,” Harry sniggers. “I knew it was to get away from Ron and ‘Mione.”

“Is it a crime to want some alone time with my boyfriend now?” Draco’s voice has a bitter edge to it, so Harry places a very sloppy kiss onto his cheek.

“No,” he sighs, settling back down. “’s not a crime. And Ron and ‘Mione aren’t the way you think they are. They’re happy for us.”

Draco snorts. “Happy for _you_ , you mean.”

“They’re happy for you too.” A brief pause, and then Harry says tentatively, “You do remember it was Hermione that found you that first time?” When Draco stiffens beneath him, he starts hastily, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to--”

“Of course I remember,” Draco interrupts calmly, his hand never stilling in Harry’s hair. “And I’m still very grateful. I also realise that she deserves more than a little credit for...us.” He remains silent for a few seconds after that, abruptly adding, “I bought them both gifts, you know, even for that wretch _Weasley_.”

Delighted, Harry lifts his head to stare at him brightly, and when Draco simply sniffles and scowls at him, Harry kisses him again, slow and deep.

Hermione had been on her way back from the library that evening, bag bulging with books, arms laden with more of them. When she’d told Harry about it later on, she said it was pure luck that made her glance into the unlit alcove and spot the pale hand sticking out.

Harry had visited Draco in the hospital wing the next morning, had silently seethed at the sight of his puffy, bruised face, the way he’d lain limp and unmoving as he’d stared impassively up at Harry through the one eye that wasn’t swollen shut. When Harry had asked him who the people responsible were, Draco had chuckled darkly and pointedly turned away from Harry.

The memory of Draco lying there like that, bruised and broken, with that air of resigned acceptance, makes Harry clutch at him tighter now, kiss him harder. Draco responds at once, his breathing stuffy and laboured even as he opens his mouth wider under Harry’s, kissing him back with eager fervour.

“Stop thinking about it,” Draco mumbles against his mouth when Harry whines softly into the kiss and wraps Draco up in a vice like grip. “Be here. Stay here with me. Stop thinking about it.”

**~*~**

Two weeks after the first incident, and Ron was already telling Harry that it felt like sixth year all over again.

“You’ve _got_ to _stop_ , mate, _please_ ,” Ron begged, raking a hand through his hair in frustration as Harry stiffened in his seat, gaze fixed on Malfoy was just about to exit the Great Hall after dinner. “You’re driving me up the wall, Harry, I’m serious.”

“What?” Harry muttered distractedly, shovelling one final forkful of shepherd’s pie into his mouth before picking up his bag and hurrying to his feet. “I just—I have some stuff to do.”

“Like what, sitting in the library for the next two hours just _watching_ Malfoy study?!” Ron hissed exasperatedly. “That’s creepy even for _you_!”

“I-- Creepy?!” Harry’s voice rose in pitch some. “For your information, I’m not... _stalking_ him, all right?! I’m—weren’t you listening when Hermione and I described in what condition he was found last time?!”

“Just let him _be_ , let this _go_ ,” Ron said vehemently, slicing a hand through the air in frustration.

“He’s being bullied. _Violently_.”

“ _Not_ your problem, mate.”

“Ron, how can you say that?” Hermione finally spoke up, sighing wearily into her book.

“Uuuh, because he’s _Malfoy_?!”

“The people who did that to him were Gryffindors. We honestly ought to be ashamed.”

“Wait, _what_?” Harry’s neck clicked as he whirled around to look at her. “How d’you know that?”

Hermione slanted them both a look. “I heard a bunch of seventh years laughing about it in the common room.” And before Harry could ask who they were, she added, “Harry, look, if you’re _tailing_ him to prevent any more such incidents, it’s sort of...nice of you? But don’t you think things would just be easier if you just went up to him and talked to him? Asked to be...something resembling friends?”

Malfoy’s bright head had disappeared from view by then and Harry had bolted after him, ignoring Ron’s high pitched squeak of mortification at Hermione’s suggestion, his own mind filled with hysterical laughter at the ridiculous thought of being _friends_ with _Malfoy_.

**~*~**

“Don’t look right away,” Harry mutters out the corner of his mouth, “but there’s a mermaid over there _winking_ at me.”

Draco doesn’t budge from where he’s half-dozing and half-reading with his head on Harry’s chest.

Scowling, Harry tries, “Huh. I guess she’s sort of my type--”

There’s the sound of ripping paper as Draco scrambles up, eyes narrowed jaw clenched, hair still wildly mussed from their frantic bout of snogging earlier. He looks around wildly until he notes that there is indeed a mermaid pressed up against one of the panes of glass, her ridiculously flashy, pink and mauve tail glistening in the dim lights as she preens at Harry, her red hair by itself enough to piss Draco off if not for the fact that despite the odd, pointy features merpeople were known for, she was rather pretty.

“Move along now!” he bellows, elbow digging into Harry’s sternum as he shakes a fist at her. “Give us some privacy, you mossy bint! Off with you, or I’ll hex a blindfold onto your stupid, fishy face!”

Wheezing under the stab of Draco’s elbow, Harry half sits up, hacking in a combination of laughter and breathlessness. “Fuck, you’re a psycho.”

“That’s right, keep it moving!” Draco continues as the mermaid turns away with a flip of her brilliant tail and a long stream of bubbles as she presumably yells inaudibly back at Draco. “Sure, nice try! He’s not into your sort anyway! Where would he even put it, huh?!”

“Draco!” Harry splutters, grinning despite himself.

“Did you _see_ a hole in her arse?!”

“I don’t even know if merpeople _have_ distinguishable arses!”

“ _I_ have an arsehole!” Draco clarifies slamming his book shut, “A very _nice_ arsehole.” The twitch of his lips and the bright speck in his eyes is proof enough that he’s not really annoyed.

“Having been inside it several times, I can safely say that I am well aware of that fact,” Harry consents, nodding sombrely. Then he’s suddenly shoved onto his back with an unceremonious hand to the chest.

“ _You_ said she’s your _type_ ,” Draco murmurs, crawling over him and settling down, elbows braced on either side of Harry’s head. “Barely two months and you’re already bored of me, _Potter_?”

Harry thumbs Draco’s jutting lower lip before holding his chin in a gentle pinch and bringing his mouth down to his own. “I’m pretty sure there’s all of one specimen of my preferred type,” Harry says softly against Draco’s mouth, “And I’m happy to report that I’ve already snagged him for myself.”

The blush spreading across those high, aristocratic cheekbones is unmistakable. “Getting a little ahead of ourselves, are we?” Draco nuzzles at him. “You’re a cocky bastard, aren’t you?”

“You’d know,” Harry says, pointedly lifting his hips so Draco can feel the ever-growing bulge in his pants.

Draco gasps, his mouth dropping open in a grin, eyes round. “I _do_ know,” he laughs, breath catching as Harry repeats the motion and buries his face in Draco’s neck. “I wish that slimy seaweed eater had stuck around to watch this,” he murmurs snidely, gasping as he’s then rolled onto his back in a sudden flash.

“I’d rather I be the only one to see you starkers, thanks,” Harry says, groping around for the hem of Draco’s jumper.

It’s a Weasely jumper, and Harry almost doesn’t want to take it off for how insanely happy it makes him to see Draco clad in the misshapen, woolly white jumper with Molly’s signature letter on the front. The ‘D’ that Draco has only his is a lot fancier than the standard square ‘H’ that Harry and Hermione always get, along with Ron’s slightly lopsided ‘R’.

The D is in a glossy, almost silvery, grey thread, edged all around with black to make it stand out more, and has a lovely little flourish, the style almost calligraphic. Harry had immediately written to Mrs. Weasley when they’d received their parcels earlier that day, thanking her for making Draco one as well.

Draco had blushed and spluttered and _tried_ to sneer at it when he’d pulled aside the simple brown paper the jumper had arrived in, and picked up the lumpy, white pile, hurrying away with it after shakily signing Harry’s note to Mrs. Weasley. Then he’d arrived at lunch an hour later wearing the thick white jumper that somehow made the usual paleness of his skin glow pink, and hadn’t taken it off since. Harry had beamed, Hermione had watched the pair of them fondly, and Ron had continued with his loud rant about how _non-members_ of his family seem to always get better jumpers than he (a legitimate Weasley) himself got.

So now, instead of taking it off, Harry simply rucks the jumper up over Draco’s belly and applies his mouth to the warm skin of his stomach, sucking moist little kisses and swirling his tongue into the shallow dip of his navel, Draco quivering under his mouth.

The fire is robust enough that they’re both covered in a fine layer of perspiration by the time Harry has worked off Draco’s trousers and pants, his own jumper and t-shirt lying strewn a few feet away, his jeans and pants halfway down his thighs. Draco’s legs are long and smooth where they wrap around Harry’s hips, and his arsehole soft and twitching when he works in two, then three, oiled fingers.

Draco still has on his jumper, now bunched up around his chest, one pink nipple peeking out as he arches up off the floor, his mouth wet and gasping open with each press of Harry’s fingers inside of him. His hair fans out bright gold across one of the rich green, velvet cushions, his neck blotchy, and stippled with countless little crimson nips, lashes fluttering as his eyes roll shut.

Harry almost loses himself in the sight before himself. He kneels there on the rugs laid out, Draco’s thighs digging into his sides, his fingers being squeezed by the intense warmth of Draco’s body, the soft, breathless moans and sighs skating across his skin and making the hairs on his arms stand up – Harry doesn’t know when it had hit him so hard, but he was a gone man, and couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so blissfully, terrifyingly happy with his life.

**~*~**

For someone who’d been relentlessly stalking Malfoy with the hope of preventing another attack for over a week, Harry was appallingly unprepared when something did finally happen under his ‘watch’.

He was strolling along behind that long, stiff-backed, pale form he’d become so accustomed to that he’d started to dream of Malfoy frequently – chasing after him, Malfoy floaty and oddly amorphous, always just out of reach, disappearing before Harry could get to him.

Sometimes he’d turn around and... _smile_ at Harry.

Harry didn’t notice the empty classroom door cracking open just as Malfoy walked past it. And so when a hex flew out, sending Malfoy reeling forward, books and bags going everywhere as he went flying across the corridor on his front, Harry stumbled to a complete halt in shock, too taken by surprise to react even as three students toppled out of the classroom, hooting with laughter as they approached Malfoy’s feebly stirring prone form, wands pointed straight down at him.

“Turn over and look us in the eye, little Death Eater,” one of the boys crooned, edging the toe of his shoe under Malfoy and nudging.

“He’s _bleeding_!” one of the other’s exclaimed in delight, “Look at all that pure, _pure_ blood gush!”

“Let’s burn that thing off his arm,” the third one said, and the calm intent with which that one spoke sent Harry’s blood running cold. “Push his sleeve up and hold him down; I’ll do it.”

Malfoy, completely still until now, moved so quickly that Harry gasped under his breath, reaching for his own wand out of pure, base instinct. The boy who’d made the comment about the blood went _flying_ backwards before Harry could even register what was happening, the sound of the boy’s skull knocking against the wall a loud thump in the quiet corridor.

“ _Get him_!”

It was the sight of the remaining two students aiming relentless kicks into Malfoy’s sides, probably still tender from last time, and the sound of Malfoy’s pained, stifled grunts, that made Harry take three long strides forward, and Stun the whole trio with a single, wordless spell.

Malfoy didn’t look surprised to see Harry. When Harry bolted over and carefully turned Malfoy onto his back, Malfoy looked absolutely livid.

His nose was broken from the fall he’d had, bleeding freely and copiously, staining his face and clothes. His eyes were dark with rage as Harry helped him sit up, after which he wasted no time in shoving Harry away with one bloody hand.

“ _Fuck_ off, Potter, I fucking _knew_ you were following me all these days!” he snarled, tears of humiliation and pain streaking down the crimson that had spread across his cheeks. His hands were shaking as he reached up to gingerly prod at his nose and comb the hair off his face, his lip trembling as sharp gusts of air escaped him. “What do you _want_?!” he screamed into Harry’s face, when Harry just sat there on his haunches and blinked at him. “What the _fuck_ do you want from me?! Did you want to finish what these worthless shits came to do?! Should I roll my sleeve up for you, Potter?!”

This time when he reached out to shove at Harry again, Harry ended up grabbing him right back, clutching handfuls of his blood soaked collar and shaking him. “Stop it, Malfoy! What is _wrong_ with you?!”

Malfoy made a soft sob of a sound, clawing Harry’s hands off him and scooting back to lean against the wall, letting his head drop back and wiping his eyes with the heels of his hand, shoulders shaking.

“Everything about me is wrong, Potter, haven’t you heard?” Malfoy drawled, although his voice came out thick and wet.

“I’ll...help you to the hospital wing, c’mon,” Harry murmured softly.

“Potter, I asked you to fuck _off_.”

“Malfoy, stop being an immature little shit,” Harry snapped, standing up and holding out a hand. “Get the fuck up so I can take you to Pomfrey.”

To his complete and immense surprise, Malfoy complied, taking Harry’s hand and slowly getting to his feet, then immediately letting go and wincing as he pressed a hand over his side. “You don’t fool me, Potter,” he said quietly. “You’re not the perfect, noble _god_ everyone believes you to be. I see you.”

“Thank fuck for that,” Harry replied casualy, retrieving Malfoy’s bag and two of the enormous books he’d been carrying. “I’ve been trying to get people to see me for _years_.”

Malfoy winced again as he picked up the third book where it’s lying spine-up a few feet away. “I don’t need your help. Leave.” With a vague gesture towards his bag, he reached for the books clutched in Harry’s arms.

Harry tightened his hold on them. “I’m just going to walk you there. I won’t ask any questions.”

For a few seconds, Harry was completely certain that Malfoy would once again order him to fuck off. And so when he simply turned around and limped away down the corridor, pausing only to throw Harry an impatient _tch_ over his shoulder, Harry hurried to follow, carelessly stepping over one of the Stunned Gryffindors.

True to his word, Harry didn’t ask a single question. He even ( _very_ reluctantly) left Malfoy with his bag and books once they got to the hospital wing, throwing glances over his shoulder as Malfoy, with yet another jerk of pain, perched on the bed Pomfrey ushered him over to.

Harry didn’t follow Malfoy the next day; he did, however, go and throw himself into the seat across from him at his table in the library as Malfoy pored over no less than four different volumes of Ancient Runes, after dinner.

Malfoy didn’t look up, not even as Harry spread out his own homework and proceeded to quietly get down to work. Not even an hour later when they still sat there, studying quietly together.

When Harry joined him again the next evening, Malfoy looked up, blinked once, and turned back to his homework; when Harry sat down opposite him the evening after that, he wordlessly moved some of his books out of the way. On the fourth evening, when Harry’s quill snapped, Malfoy fished out a spare quill from his bag and handed it over with a vague hum.

By the fifth evening, Harry was rather desperate to just fucking _talk_ to Malfoy already.

**~*~**

By the time Harry sinks into Draco, they’re both trembling violently. Draco is completely silent, arms tight around Harry’s shoulders, eyes shut as he pants quietly. When Harry leans in kisses each eyelid softly, Draco opens his eyes, dark and hungry, but still somehow serene – content.

“If someone walks in right now, they’d see my bare arse,” Harry mutters, making Draco’s face split into a wide, crinkly grin.

“Better yours than mine,” he says, lips brushing Harry’s sweaty temple. “This is why I didn’t want to sit on your cock.”

“I thought you said it’s too cold to ride me.”

“I’ll say what I like, Potter,” Draco says, chuckling breathily, one hand reaching down to claw over Harry’s arse cheek. “You going to start moving any time soon? Sometime before New Year’s, perhaps?”

Kissing him quiet, Harry braces his forearms on the floor, lifting up on them and shifting his hips back and forth in the slowest, most gentle rhythm he can, barely pulling out of Draco before grinding back inside, Draco’s arse happily clutching at him.

Harry can’t think, can’t function properly, when he can Draco are entwined like this, as tightly wound together as they are, Draco’s hands in his hair, his low whispers in his ear, his legs coiled around Harry’s waist in a nearly painfully tight grip. The reality of their relationship, of the fact that they even _have_ one, seems all too intense, almost jarring, in moments like this.

The flickering light from the fireplace dances across them, making the light sweat on their skin glow orange, and making Draco’s eyes sparkle with the same something that burns inside Harry’s chest. Their noses brush and their breath mingles, Draco shuddering each time Harry’s belly presses against his hard length between them. They don’t need words in these moments, don’t need to speak out loud, but it is in these moments that they’re most honest with each other.

**~*~**

Several days after Malfoy and Harry started studying together, George and Charlie came visiting and invited Harry, Ron and Hermione to dinner at Hogsmead. Harry didn’t pay heed to the slight, completely inexplicable, pang of disappointment at the fact that he wouldn’t be seeing Malfoy that night, and so didn’t think much of skipping out on their nightly ritual without informing Malfoy about it.

So the next evening at the library, when Harry dumped his bag into a free chair and flung himself into his usual seat, he was met with the sight of Malfoy sitting there, spine stiff and straight, expression cold and slightly frightening as regarded Harry, lightly tapping his quill onto the table.

“What,” Harry said blankly.

“Oh, nothing,” Malfoy replied with absolutely unconvincing airiness. “Just surprised to see you here, that’s all.”

Harry blinked. “We’ve been studying together for nearly two weeks.”

Malfoy’s lip curled. “I’m aware,” he hissed. “Where were you _yesterday_ , then?” The second the words left Malfoy’s mouth, he turned brilliantly pink, eyes widening before he hurriedly looked down, looking completely mortified with himself. “I—I mean—I...”

He trailed off into brittle silence while Harry sat there and simply gaped, his thoughts formulating slowly, filling him with vague realisation that somehow also warmed his insides up. “I—we went to dinner with a couple of Ron’s brothers,” Harry said softly, dipping his head to try and catch Malfoy’s eye. “I’m sorry, I actually meant to send you a note, but we ran late and I forgot.”

“Whatever, Potter,” Malfoy said, sounding a tad hysterical. “I don’t care. It’s not like we’re _friends_ ,” he adds, blurting it out in a rush.

Harry leaned back in his chair, eyebrows raised. When Malfoy continued to stare fixedly into his textbook, Harry asked softly, “We’re not?”

“No,” was the immediate answer.

“ _Can_ we be?”

Malfoy looked up at that, mouth slightly open, grey gaze genuinely surprised. He’s not very pointy anymore, Harry thought. His features carried the same air of sharp perfection that his mother’s did, but Malfoy’s appearance didn’t have that piercing severity to it anymore. He appeared almost...soft in the yellow library light, fair hair tumbling into his eyes, his keen gaze wary as he considered Harry’s question.

“Why?” he eventually asked, eyes narrowed.

Harry shrugged in answer, a tiny smile playing about his mouth as he stared at him. When Malfoy’s eyes only narrowed further, he sighed and said, “Don’t you think it’s about time we became friends? Do you intend to hate me forever?”

“Yes.”

Harry grinned. “That’s some ambition right there.”

“I can hate you forever if I want to, Potter,” Malfoy sniffed, “It’s easy because you’re a giant prat.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, his tone somehow fond. “D’you want to go to Hogsmeade with us this weekend?”

“Why?”

“Just. I noticed you don’t get out much.”

“Watch me a lot, do you?”

“It’s hard not to,” Harry blurted out before he could think. Feeling his face heat, he quickly turned to his bag, pulling out three text books at random and a wrinkled sheet of parchment.

Just as Harry started to scribble out something, he wasn’t sure what, Malfoy said quietly, “Won’t Weasely and Granger mind?”

Harry looked up, relieved and delighted in equal measure. “No,” he assured him earnestly. “It was Hermione who suggested I invite you, actually.”

Malfoy looked visibly disappointed. “Oh.”

“But _I_ want you there too,” Harry added hurriedly. “I—I think Hermione knew that, which is why she...asked me to...ask you to...”

He trailed off as Malfoy’s lips quirked on a tiny smile, continuing to watch him long after he’d dipped his blond head back down to his homework.

The scheduled trip to Hogsmeade the following weekend was as big a disaster as anybody could’ve predicted it might be. Malfoy and Ron glared at each other from the moment Malfoy met the three of them at the front doors. They walked up to Hogsmeade in frosty silence, Harry and Hermione making wildly cheery conversation to compensate, and when they got to the village, it was decided that their first stop would be Honeydukes.

Ron in Honeydukes was very akin to Hermione at Flourish and Blotts, and while Harry stood next to Malfoy and munched on a bar of something with nuts in it, Ron, as was customary, took a free sample of nearly every sweet on display and then decided to buy about three bulging bagfuls worth of candy. Hermione watched in resigned exasperation as Ron paid for it all, and Malfoy went and opened his mouth about how none of the sweets matched up even halfway to the chocolate _he_ had grown up eating, that was owled to the Manor by the crate, all the way from Paris.

What started off as miffed sniping between Ron and Malfoy as they left Honeydukes, had turned into a full blown shouting match by the time they reached The Three Broomsticks. Hermione nearly toppled over backwards as Ron stepped up and bellowed right into Malfoy’s face, while Malfoy stared back through half-lidded eyes, lip curled in derision, expression one of pained boredom.

Until Harry, who’d stood there helplessly the whole time, suddenly stepped forward, curled a hand around Malfoy’s elbow and dragged him firmly away in the opposite direction, Ron still yelling after them.

“This was a bad idea, Potter,” Malfoy drawled, but his voice trembled a little and his jaw was clenched tightly.

“No, you and Ron just need to stop being arses, that’s all,” Harry huffed, pace swift.

“Of _course_ you’ll say it was my fault--” Malfoy started.

“ _No_ ,” Harry interrupted pointedly, drawing the word out, “I included Ron in that statement too. _Both_ of you need to stop being arses.”

“Where are you taking me?” Malfoy snapped irritably, and without waiting for Harry to answer, added, “I think I’m just going to head back to the castle now, Potter.”

“We’re going to the Hog’s Head,” Harry replied cheerfully, not loosening his grip on Malfoy. “Been a while since I popped in to say hello to Aberforth, anyway.”

“Aberforth _Dumbledore_?!”

“The very same.”

“Well, this is going to be a pleasant afternoon then,” Malfoy squeaked hysterically. “Hello, I’m the bloke that almost killed your brother, who was also the most revered wizard since Merlin! How do you do, I’ll have Firewhiskey, if you please!”

Harry rolled his eyes as he said, “Relax, Aberforth isn’t like that. He barely even acknowledges _me_ beyond a grunt, and we fought in a War together; he’ll likely look right through you.”

“He sounds de _light_ ful!” Malfoy grumbled, stumbling along next to Harry. “Look, seriously, it was really nice of you to invite me and all, but I think it’s best if I just head back up.”

“No,” Harry said firmly, just as the rusted, creaky old signboard of the Hog’s Head came into view ahead of them. “I’m buying you that Firewhiskey, just shut up and drink it.”

Malfoy, surprisingly, didn’t complain further after that, and as they stepped into the pub through the swing doors that squeaked loudly at the hinges, Harry realised that he wasn’t holding Malfoy’s elbow anymore, but Malfoy’s hand.

**~*~**

“My feet are cold again.”

Harry blinks awake from the light doze he’d fallen into. He pushes his nose into the little nook under Draco’s ear, pressing around the curve of his back as he says, “I told you, let’s just go up to bed.”

“There’s no fire up in my dorm, Potter.”

“Yes, but there’s a bed,” Harry points out, “and proper blankets, and pillows, and also, there’s a slimmer chance of being caught half naked up there.”

Draco snorts. “I told you. I’m the only Slytherin staying back for Christmas. Well, except for that one fourth year, but I think she spends most of her nights stalking the Blood Baron.”

“Are all of you like this?”

“Yes.”

“Charming.”

They eventually do make it up to Draco’s dorm room which lies halfway up the spiral staircase that leads out of the common room. There’s a pane of glass next to each bed and the Lake glows eerily green here too, but once they’ve gotten into Draco’s four posted and drawn the drapes, they’re in near complete darkness.

Draco’s skin is a pale form in the gloom, and Harry runs a slow hand down his side, Draco sniffling against his neck. “Why didn’t you want to go home for Christmas?” Harry whispers, holding him tighter, their legs tangling firmly together.

There’s an answer in the form of a vague, noncommittal hum, and when Harry waits in expectant silence, Draco sighs. “I didn’t...feel like spending Christmas back in that house,” he admits softly. “I didn’t even think I’d be celebrating Christmas this year, to be honest.”

“Why not?”

Draco’s tone makes it clear that he thinks Harry is dumb as a knob. “Oh, I don’t know, probably because, just a few months back, I was on the wrong side of a huge War that killed hundreds of innocents? Call me strange, but the aftermath didn’t really give me a particularly _festive_ feeling.”

Harry smiles ruefully into the dark. “Sorry,” he murmurs.

“It’s _fine_ , I’m here now, aren’t I?” Draco snaps, muffled and irritable.

“You are, yes,” Harry’s arms tighten around him, “and that’s all that matters.”

**~*~**

It was Halloween the night they first kissed, and it was nothing as dramatic as Harry had thought it might be the first time he fantasised about kissing Draco two weeks prior.

Things had been markedly pleasant between them since the Hog’s Head. They’d spent the whole afternoon, and a large portion of the evening, at the pub, finishing three helpings of Firewhiskey each before switching to Butterbeer and waiting for the tipsiness and random bursts of drunken giggling to pass; and in the meanwhile, talking.

The ease with which the conversation flowed between them was un _believ_ able. Malfoy was really fucking smart – _Hermione_ smart – along with being surprisingly sentient, and not at all crass anymore. He didn’t seem particularly inclined to broach the subject of the War, but when Harry did, quite by accident, and not at all in any kind of direct relation to Malfoy’s role in it, Malfoy simply blinked, lips tightening slightly, before nodding and softly responding.

They only left after sundown, when Aberforth started getting a lot more customers much like himself, old and grizzled and incredibly grumpy, and clouds of acrid pipe smoke started drifting across the pub. They trudged back to the castle, the sudden silence between them loud after their incessant chattering earlier, but still somehow comfortable. When they reached Hogwarts, they parted with pleasant, albeit slightly awkward nods, and an hour later, Harry stared at Malfoy across the Great Hall all through dinner, Malfoy glancing back frequently enough to make his stomach flutter.

They talked after that, a lot: while studying together each evening, and then starting to walk to their classes together, eventually even sitting together during the lessons they shared. Malfoy helped Harry with Potions and Transfiguration, Harry helped him with practical Defence and some Advanced Charms he’d inadvertently learnt by himself over the previous few years. Eventually they started sitting beside each other at mealtimes, sharing common room passwords, playing chess before bed during the week, and flying together after breakfast during the weekends. Eventually they didn’t wait for lessons, or homework, to start spending time together.

Eventually, Potter became Harry, and Malfoy became Draco, and Harry couldn’t stop thinking about touching Draco; touching his hair, his face, the pearly white skin of his neck. Harry couldn’t stop imagining what it’d be like to hold him, to feel the warmth of his flesh against his own, to feel the faint vibrations of his laughter against his skin.

He couldn’t stop thinking about what it’d be like to kiss him, to feel their chests press together, heart thudding in unison; to brush the hair out of his eyes, to have those grey eyes regard him with something akin to what Harry himself felt for Malfoy; to hold his hands and press honest words into his forehead, and to have them be believed.

And so, on Halloween, as they strolled around the grounds together before dinner, Malfoy huddled under his cloak, the hood pulled low enough to cover his ears, his nose and cheeks pink from the autumn chill, Harry decided to throw caution to the winds. Malfoy was in the middle of a rant about their new Defence professor, when Harry halted him with a light hand on his arm.

Malfoy blinked at him, looking around them once in confusion before turning back to him, his expression suddenly changing as Harry tilted his chin up and leaned closer.

Right up until the moment their lips touched, Harry had been sure that Malfoy was going to whack him across the face and stomp back to the castle before making a shouted announcement about Harry’s perversions.

But then their lips brushed, once lightly, again with more intent, and Malfoy tilted his head slightly, sidling closer to Harry, his mouth falling slightly open so with a sudden jolt of elated excitement, Harry could feel, could taste, the warm, wet sweetness of his mouth.

For an unplanned first kiss, it went on for a remarkably long time, neither of them particularly keen nor in a hurry to part long enough to discuss things. They kissed and kissed and kissed, standing there entwined together, arms coiled around each other, breath huffing across each other’s faces, neither of them cold anymore, despite the biting wind that swirled their cloaks and robes around them.

When at last they did part long enough to talk, Harry blurted, “Fuck, but I’ve been dying to do that.”

To which Malfoy, all cheeky grin and sparkling eyes, laughed and murmured, “Well, took you long enough, then.”

**~*~**

Somewhere in the distance, there’s singing, eerily beautiful and muffled, and as Harry slowly blinks awake, he realises that they’re from inside the Lake – Merepeople, he thinks.

Then he becomes aware of the insistent tapping on his shoulder. “Harry,” Draco hisses, sounding impatient and irritated like he usually did when he’d been trying to get Harry’s attention for more than five seconds to no avail.

“Mmwhat?” Harry garbles, unconsciously pulling him closer.

“Do you know how long I’ve been calling you?!” Draco sounds nasal and stuffy again as he sniffles softly.

“I was _asleep_ , you shit.”

“I _know_.”

“What do you want, it’s the middle of the damn night and it’s bloody _cold_ down here.”

“It’s Christmas.”

Harry opens his eyes a crack, Draco’s pale face swimming into view, blurry and shapeless for a moment but then as he focuses, he sees that serene, twinkle-eyed smile, the pink nose and cheeks. “Yeah,” he says softly.

“I just wanted to say,” Draco whispers, gulping audibly and licking his lips, “I just wanted to say that—that I—that... Happy Christmas,” he manages lamely, looking put out and disappointed with himself.

Harry grins, tucking the covers more securely under them and drawing Draco even closer so that they were jammed together impossibly close. Kissing Draco’s nose in a quick peck, he says, “Took you long enough then,” grinning at Draco’s initial bewilderment and then guffawing at his flushed scowling. “Happy Christmas to you too,” he murmurs against his mouth.

Yes, Harry decides, definitely his happiest Christmas ever.

**~end~**

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are treasured. HMU on [Tumblr](https://l0vegl0wsinthedark.tumblr.com/) if you like!
> 
> xoxo


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